Not a Regular Day
by TesubCalle
Summary: New Chapter! Original concept from an NFA Community movie challenge. Things are getting more serious, and more cracked, as now Tim and Abby are drawn into the mix... 'NCIS' and 'Frequency' crossover. Non slash.
1. Chapter 1

**A/N: This was originally started in response to a movie challenge over at the NFA Community. Being me, I didn't complete it by the designated deadline. I still wanted to finish it, so I've finally been inspired to take it up again. This is a crossover with the movie 'Frequency', so there will be definite spoilers for that movie, as well as for season 4 NCIS in general (just so I cover all my bases).  
**

**Not a Regular Day  
**

Special Agent Anthony DiNozzo squirmed in his chair. For what must have been the seventh time that morning, he stood up, took a few hurried steps away from his desk, then stopped in his tracks and returned.

Mossad officer Ziva David stole an amused glance in his direction. She'd been observing this unusual dance from the moment it began. Curiosity finally got the better of her. She sauntered over to Tony and casually sat on the edge of his desk.

He looked up at this unexpected intrusion with an expression of aggravation. "What?!"

"Something wrong?" Ziva asked sweetly.

"No."

"Come on," she coaxed. "You can tell me."

"This doesn't concern you, Ziva. Butt out."

"I would. But watching you squirm and sit up and down all morning is driving me a little crazy."

"You're already crazy, Ziva, we just didn't tell you sooner."

Ziva smiled mildly and turned her attention to Agent Timothy McGee.

"McGee," she called out.

The young agent snapped to attention and looked up at Ziva from his computer. "Uh, yes?"

"McGee, what do you think is wrong with Tony today?"

A look of confusion crossed Tim's face. "Wrong? Something's wrong with Tony?"

"Yes. Haven't you noticed all his ups and downs today?" Ziva slid from Tony's desk, and did her best to mimic Tony's squirming and sit-and-stand motions, only with grand exaggerations.

"I hadn't noticed, Ziva," Tim said apologetically.

"_Thank you_, Probie," Tony said, shooting Ziva a look that would freeze water.

"Um, can I go back to work now? Because Gibbs really wants this-"

"Yes, McGee," Ziva said impatiently, cutting off the other agent.

At that moment, Tony clenched his jaw, and slowly stood. With a sigh of exasperation, he once again sat down.

Ziva was still standing at his desk, her arms folded. "You know what you look like, Tony?"

"A guy who's still pissed you're still here?"

"You look like a child that is trying to ignore the fact that his ladder is full."

Tony's head sunk, and he closed his eyes. "That's _bladder_. And no, I don't need to go _pee,_ Mother dearest."

"Ah-ha...if it is not the urge to urinate, then it must be..."

"_Thank you_, Ziva, for your unwelcome attention to my bodily functions," Tony said sarcastically.

"Might I ask _why_ Ziva is concerned with your bodily functions, Agent DiNozzo?"

"Yeah, I was kinda wondering the _same thing_, Duck,"an unamused voice boomed.

Both Tony and Ziva looked up in surprise.

The two new voices belonged to Dr. 'Ducky' Mallard and Special Agent Jethro Gibbs. Both were standing behind one of the desk partitions to Tony's right. Ziva and Tony knew better than to ask 'When did you get here?' or 'How long have you been standing there?'.

Any prior attitude of levity vanished from Ziva's demeanour. Tony simply looked happy to be out from under Ziva's scrutiny.

"I think I'd like to hear the answer to Dr. Mallard's question, Officer David," Gibbs said.

Tony grinned at Ziva with a school-boy _now you're gonna get it _expression.

"Well, if you want my opinion," she said testily, "I think Tony looks emaciated."

"That's _constipated,_" Tony snapped, then instantly covered his mouth.

Ziva ginned in triumph. "That wasn't so hard to admit, now was it?"

Ducky and Gibbs laughed. Ziva chuckled quietly, partly from getting Tony to admit he was constipated, and partly from relief that Gibbs was in a cheery mood.

"Is this true, Agent DiNozzo?" Ducky asked with mock seriousness.

Tony shot a sour glance at Ziva, who was retreating to her the safety of her desk. "Yes. But only a couple days."

"Hmm. I see. This is why I always caution you about all those fatty, high carbohydrate foods you insist on consuming," Ducky started to say.

"Yeah," Tony cut in, "fatty, high carbohydrate _good-tasting _foods!"

"But Tony, it's not good for your gut," Ducky continued, patting his own paunch. "You need more fiber in your diet."

"Fiber," Tony echoed. "That sounds like I should eat something that resembles someone's overgrown lawn."

"Actually, he's right, Tony," Gibbs added. "I'd rather you be 'regular' than hit-and-miss. Can't always find decent facilities out in the field."

"Are we done having potty-jokes at Tony's expense, already?" Tony griped.

"Shoe's on the other foot now," Ziva piped up from her desk. "And I think I got that one right that time."

"In all seriousness, Tony, I do happen to keep some breakfast cereal with me here. It's for those times when I'm called in unexpectedly early in the morning and I haven't had time for a proper meal. It's quite high in fiber. It should do the trick."

"I think I'll pass," Tony said.

"Actually, if you eat the cereal, you will pass," Ducky said, "whatever's got you so...backed-up."

"Tony," Gibbs said, "eat the darn cereal. I can't have you disrupting everyone else with your little dance. Right, Officer David?

"Oh, uh, right, Gibbs." Ziva answered.

"Besides, I've had a few handfuls of cereal from Ducky's stash. It's not bad," Gibbs said.

"I'll even make it worth your while, Tony," Ducky put in.

"Oh yeah? How's that?" Tony asked skeptically.

"You can keep the prize at the bottom of the box."

Tony perked up slightly. "Prize? What is it?"

"I believe the box advertised a free movie rental," Ducky said.

"A movie rental," Tony said, disappointment evident. "Ducky, I own practically every movie there is worth watching. Well, actually, now that you mention it, a free rental is good for something. It's like separating the wheat from the chaff, you know? Some movies you gotta see on the big screen, and some you just have to rent."

"Yes, well, whatever you do with the rental is up to you, Tony. Just promise me you'll actually _eat_ the cereal."

"Eat it," Gibbs repeated, "or I'll spike your lattes with Ex-Lax."

ooo

A few minutes later, Dr. Mallard did indeed return with the aforementioned box of high-fiber breakfast cereal.

"Here you are, Tony," Ducky said, plopping it down in the desk. "Bon appétit."

Tony gave his colleague a sardonic smile. " 'Fiber Flakes'. Mmm...Yummy!" He turned the box around to read the list of ingredients. "'Whole grains; includes whole wheat, whole oats, barley, bulgar and millet...Wow. Sounds like a _whole_ lot of fun, already...What's this word? S-s-s..Psyllium?I don't even know what this is."

"It's better than it sounds, trust me, Tony." Dr. Mallard departed with a wave of his hand.

Tony opened the box and sniffed its contents suspiciously. He shoved his hand into it and pulled out a handful of the cereal.

A moment later, some of the flakes were showering down on McGee's desk.

"Hey!" Tim exclaimed.

Ziva swallowed a chuckle.

Tony heard her, and pelted a handful in her direction. She swatted at the offending, albeit tiny projectiles while Tony laughed.

"Ha! That's for making me talk about my private business."

McGee frowned, and turned his keyboard up-side down to shake loose some smaller particles that had landed on it.

Ziva scooped the cereal from her desk into her palm and tossed it back at Tony. "Food fight!" she exclaimed.

Tony grinned and emptied the entire contents of the box onto his desk.

"You and what army?" he asked, a smug expression on his face. He grabbed a handful and hurled it at Ziva. She quickly pulled up a binder as a shield, and the offending flakes were neatly deflected.

"Missed!" she cried gleefully.

Tim, seeing that it would be no use to sit this one out, swept the grains he'd dumped from his keyboard onto a piece of paper, and stealthily crept closer to Tony. He noted that Ziva and Tony were totally engrossed in fighting each other, and thought he'd be able to launch a surprise attack.

He took a deliberate and circuitous route, and was now behind Tony, who's just fired off another bunch in Ziva's direction.

In another second, Tony's hair was covered with cereal crumbs Tim had sprinkled there.

Ziva, amused by the sight, simply could not contain herself and giggled, eyes squeezed shut.

"Probie." Tony said, turning slowly to face Tim, his voice like steel. "You don't ever, _ever_, mess with _the hair._ Understand?"

Tim shrugged. "That's what you get for messing with my computer. I'd say we're even."

Tony reached behind him for another fistful of cereal from his desk. He crunched it noisily and rubbed it on top of Tim's head, deliberately grinding it into his neatly-combed hair.

"_Now_ we're even," Tony said with a smirk.

A sudden unexpected (but no less familiar) sensation brought Tony out of his celebratory smugness. He rubbed the back of his head, which was smarting from the slap only one other person could possibly have delivered.

"DiNozzo; McGee; David...What the hell are you doin'?" Gibbs demanded.

"Um, it was them, Boss," Tim sputtered. "I was just returning to Tony what belonged to him."

"Yeah?" Gibbs asked, eyebrows raised.

Tim nodded. "Yes."

"He started it," Ziva chimed in. "He can't help playing with his food."

"I don't care who started it," Gibbs snapped. "Clean it up. Everyone."

With a sigh, Tony leaned down to pick up his garbage can.

"Uh-uh," Gibbs said, putting his foot on the receptacle forcing it back to the floor. "Not in there ..."

He grabbed Tony behind the neck, scooped up a handful of cereal, and shoved it into the younger man's gaping mouth. "In _there._ _All of you_. I so much as see a speck of cereal in your garbage cans, I'm making you eat nothing but compost for the next week."

Tony nearly spat up the contents of his mouth.

"Boss, you're not serious, are you?" Tim asked, dismay evident on his face.

"Look at me and tell me I'm joking around here, McGee," Gibbs replied, his face set like stone. "Didn't your mother ever tell you it's wrong to waste food? Eat it. All of it."

Tim sighed, knowing it was pointless to continue arguing.

Gibbs retreated to his own desk, shoes crunching over flakes that had landed on the floor.

Tony's face contorted in disgust.

"Oh, I'm not eating that!" Tim said, looking over at his colleagues.

"He did that on purpose." Tony pouted.

"What is 'compost'?" Ziva asked quietly.

ooo

Twenty minutes later, all the bits of scattered cereal had been collected and grudgingly consumed under Gibbs' watchful eyes.

"I think I'm going to be sick," McGee groaned.

Tony was rubbing his stomach miserably. "Easy for you to say. I think I tasted _saw dust _when I chewed on those pieces Gibbs mashed under his shoes."

Tim grimaced at the description.

"Oh, you're both whining like a bunch of hippies," Ziva commented, shaking her head.

"I think you mean 'sissies'," Tim said by way of correction. "And why aren't you complaining?"

"I've eaten far less appetizing things."

"Forget it. I don't want to know any more details," Tim said.

Suddenly, Tony seemed to perk up. He rubbed his hands together and shoved his arm in all the way to the bottom of the box. His fingers scraped away at the cardboard, and peeled away something that was stuck there.

"Aha! Got it!"

"Got what?" Tim asked, peering up in Tony's direction.

"My prize!" Tony peered intently at the small, gold-colored ticket wrapped in cellophane. "'Block_Bester_ Movies' ?" He furrowed his brow. "Never heard of them. Oh, well. I get a free movie off them, so I don't care what they're called."

"What are you going to borrow?" Tim asked.

"Well, since my knowledge of movies - as well as my personal collection - is quite extensive, it'll have to be one that's a new release."

"In light of your recent problem with regularity, perhaps you should borrow 'Frequency'." Tim chortled.

"Not funny, Probie," Tony muttered.

" 'Frequency'...That is the one with Jim Cav...Cavity...yes?" Ziva asked.

"Caviezel." McGee said helpfully. "A cavity is like when your tooth rots."

Ziva nodded thoughtfully. "Thank you. Some of these American actors...sometimes their names are so strange..."

"Ah...you _like_ Jimmy Caviezel, don't you?" Tony pressed playfully.

"As a matter of fact, I think he's rather attractive," Ziva said curtly.

"Oh, really?"

"Yes."

Tim and Tony exchanged amused glances.

Ziva appeared slightly flustered. "If you must know...you see...well, he kind of reminds me of Roy. There. I said it. Now can we please drop it and get back to actual work, now?"

"Sure," Tony said. "Only lemme ask you one thing: You're a Jew; he played Jesus Christ. How would that relationship ever work?"

He ducked as a binder flew straight towards his head. "I think I preferred it when she was throwing 'Fiber Flakes'," he said.

ooo

"Why the glum face, McGee?"

Tim had just entered the forensics lab where Goth-scientist, Abby Sciuto, was monitoring the mass spectrometer and other computers as they buzzed through various processes. At hand was her ubiquitous extra-large cup of Caf-Pow! She slurped from the red straw, her pursed lips made-up with ultra-dark red lip-stick. A white lab coat was her only concession to the dress-code regulations of her profession; everything else screamed alternative lifestyle. With knee-high black boots, tattoos, rings, pasty-white foundation and hair dyed black, Abby was nevertheless an indispensable member of the team.

Tim rolled his eyes and said one word: "Gibbs."

It was sufficient enough explanation, and Abby nodded knowingly.

"What'd you do to piss him off this time?"

"Food fight," Tim said, trying to hide his embarrassment. "He made Tony, Ziva and me _eat_ the cereal we tossed around. I think I'm gonna be sick."

Abby's eyes flew furtively from her Caf-Pow to a bowl on one of the lab benches. Tim followed her guilty glance and spied an almost-empty bowl of what appeared to be Fiber Flakes and some milk.

"You eat that stuff _willingly_?" Tim exclaimed, his face taking on a look of betrayal and accusation.

"Sure, McGee," Abby said with a sly smile. "It's healthy. Ducky said I could have whenever I wanted, so I had some."

"Ugh," Tim said in disgust. "And today just _had_ to be the day you chose to have some."

"It's not my fault, McGee. The Director called me in early this morning. I poured a bowl while I waited for Ol' Faithful to fire up," Abby replied, gesturing towards the mass spec. "But what can I do for you, since you obviously didn't come down here to chat about breakfast?.."

"You know how Gibbs gets when he thinks we're not producing results fast enough," Tim answered.

Abby chortled. "Yeah. '_Tim, go help Abby_'," she did her best gruff imitation of their boss.

"I suppose we can _both_ stare at the computers," Tim suggested, "though it always feels like watching a pot boil."

They each pulled up a stool, sat, and stared as endless data scrolled along the screens opposite them.

At a loss for conversation, Tim's mind wandered to Tony's prize at the bottom of the cereal box.

"Do you think there's a movie out there Tony hasn't seen or knows about? He's got this free movie rental, and you know how he's always going on about some obscure film, and how it pertains to a case?"

"Well," Abby said thoughtfully, "that might be hard. Tony's become a serious movie buff over the past 4 or 5 years."

"What is it with him and movies, anyway? It's like he thinks he's _Remington Steele,_ or something."

"Oh, I love that show! Pierce and Stephanie were so good together."

"I would have thought Tony was too busy looking at girlie magazines to look at TV or movies," Tim replied.

"Well..." Abby said with glee, "Kate once told me that he didn't even know who _Shane _was."

"Who's _Shane_?" asked Tim, eyes squinting in confusion.

Abby blinked. "Alan Ladd?"

"Right," Tim said dubiously, giving his head a shake. "Never saw it."

"That's because you're a geek, McGee," Abby said. "Think about it: you spend all your free time in front of this...ancient typewriter...free-associating the night away!"

"Thanks," Tim shot back sarcastically. "What's wrong with spending my free time hashing out ideas for a novel?"

"You really want me to answer that?"

"Forget it," Tim said with a sigh. "Look, just because I don't watch old movies and - and memorize plots and dialogue and do stupid impressions of dead actors does _not_ make me a geek!"

"Of course not, McGee," Abby said in a placating tone. "You just...write about the adventures of Agent _Tibbs, _Officer_ Lisa_ and Agent_ Tommy _all you want."

Tim rolled his eyes.

"Hey. Has Jimmy forgiven you for the '_Pimmy Jalmer'_ character yet?"


	2. Chapter 2

It was half-past quitting time, and Tony eagerly slung his back-pack over his shoulder and headed for the elevators. With the movie ticket for the free rental securely in his wallet, he consulted an address he had scribbled on a Post-It note.

" 'Block_Bester_ Movies'," he muttered, again put off by the unfamiliar brand name, if it really did belong to a chain of movie rental places, at all. Tony drove to an area in Georgetown that appeared to have escaped the gentrification of the 50s and 60s. Ageing store fronts and residences struggled to survive alongside each other on crumbling streets. Tony had to slow down to make sure he didn't drive right past the business he was looking for.

A marquee proclaiming 'Block_Bester_ Movies' flashed wanly in the fading evening light. Tony pulled off his sunglasses and entered the tiny building. It hardly beckoned; the interior was dimly lit and smelled remotely of mildew. Sagging dusty shelves half-heartedly displayed DVDs. It bothered Tony right away that there was absolutely no one else in the store, except for a person he assumed was the manager.

"Evenin'," the lone member of staff said in a low, uninterested voice. He stood behind the check-out desk, his angular face in shadow; his gaunt figure clothed in a black hooded sweater and jeans.

"Evenin'," Tony replied, trying to ignore the feeling that the staffer's eyes were following his every move. He decided to make his visit here as brief as possible, and began to circle around the shelves in search of anything interesting.

The carpet underfoot was worn and the ceiling was water-stained. Movie posters were affixed to the walls in what in Tony's opinion was a random and illogical manner.

"Who puts _Batman Begins_ next to a faded poster of _Steel Magnolias?_" he grumbled under his breath. "How old is this poster, anyway?" Steel Magnolias was like, 20 years old, for cryin' out loud, he thought.

"Selection sure isn't anything to write home about," Tony said to himself, frowning as he picked up a DVD case that was for display only; the actual movie had apparently been already rented by someone else.

"Aw, ugh...'Daddy Day Camp'? 'Ishtar'...'Battlefield Earth'...'The Last Action Hero'..." Tony grimaced at what was left on the shelves. "More like _LackLuster _Movies!"

"May I help you?"

The sound of the lone staff member's voice nearly made Tony jump out of his skin. He turned around and glared at the man, who had been standing silently behind him. He was staring straight back at Tony, unblinking, and un-fazed by Tony's angry looks.

"Uh...yes..." Tony said, mustering a smile and adopting a casual tone: "I have this ticket thingy from a cereal box. I just, you know, wanted to see what you guys have here to rent."

He dug into his pocket and withdrew his wallet. He pulled out the golden ticket and showed it to the store employee. The man peered at the prize for a few moments.

"Right this way," he said, directing Tony to a shelf tucked away in a corner of the store.

"Why?"

"You may make your selection from this shelf and this shelf alone. Those are the terms of the reward as stipulated by management of Block_Bester_ Movies."

Tony stared in disappointment at the dinky little shelf. There were about 10 titles. He'd seen all of them; some more than once. Half of them were already taken, anyway. Most of them he actually already owned.

There was one movie representing almost every genre. He turned to the staffer and addressed him:

"If these are all the movies I can choose from, then I would like to talk to 'management', buddy."

"I am he," the other man replied. "There are no exceptions. Make your selection from these movies, and these movies alone."

"Sure. Fine," Tony grumbled. He turned back to the shelf, and made a mental note of all the movies on the shelf that he'd either seen or owned, and those that were already rented:

There was the cutesy Family flick, 'The Little Mermaid' (rented); there was a Comedy, 'Young Frankenstein' (rented _and_ owned); Western movie was 'Shane' (owned, but only after being embarrassed that he hadn't seen it during a stint that took them to GITMO); Action flick was 'Die Hard' (rented _and _owned, and seen a thousand times); Romance was 'The Princess Bride' (rented); Musical was 'Singing in the Rain' (rented). That left the Horror movie choice of 'Jaws' (owned), Drama choice of 'The Shawshank Redemption' (owned); War movie, 'Stalag 17' (owned); Sci-Fi...Tony shook his head in disbelief at the selection for Science Fiction.

"_Frequency._"

He picked up the DVD case. He'd already seen it, of course. But he didn't own it. If anything, he could borrow this and think up ways to tease Ziva about her 'crush' on Jim Caviezel. He chuckled to himself.

"I think I'll take this one," he said, approaching the desk. The manager was quietly standing there, waiting for him.

"Excellent choice. It's a very good movie. I guarantee you're in for an interesting experience. Ticket, please?"

Tony produced the gold-coloured piece of paper and handed it over. The manager tore it in half, put one end in the cash register tray, and handed Tony his 'stub'.

"Enjoy your movie," the manager said.

"Thanks," Tony answered without enthusiasm. He stuffed the ticket stub in his wallet and took his movie. He didn't want to spend another minute in the store and left hurriedly. He wasn't sure, but he could have sworn he saw a smirk forming on the manager's face, and a spark of glee in his eyes.

"What a creepy guy," Tony said to himself as he drove to his apartment. "Oh, well. At least it's a free movie, even if I have seen it before..."

Tony had just turned on his widescreen flat-panel TV and popped the DVD in the player when he had an urge to bolt for the bathroom. He tossed the remote on to his coffee table and sprinted like his life depended on it, socks sliding on the thick carpet as he ran.

A few minutes later, the satisfying sound of the toilet flushing nearly drowned out a sound coming from his living room. The movie had started playing.

_** Butch - **(muffled, over walkie-talkie) "Sullivan! This is Commander O'Connell. Can you hear me?"_

_** Frank - **"I hear ya, Commander."_

_** Butch - **"The gasoline is risin' in the vault. Those downed cables hit that gas, it's gonna blow."_

Tony crept down the hall and heard more dialogue as the movie continued to play.

_** ConEd Worker – **__(frightened) "Get us outta here! He's got a broken leg! Get us out!"_

_** Butch – **(over walkie-talkie) "Frank, it's gonna flash. Get outta there. Dike isn't holdin'."_

Tony approached the TV and watched firefighter, Frank Sullivan, instruct the probationary fighter, 'Gib' Gibson, to give his clawed crowbar a whack with an ax.

_** Frank - **__"No sparks. Again! One more!"_

Tony stared as the rusted door in the movie finally gave, and gasoline that had been building in the vault gushed out into the underground tunnel.

Tony decided he really should flip back to the beginning of the chapter, and grabbed for the remote. As he did so, he yelped in surprise as he was zapped with a jolt of static electricity.

"_We have a white male, found unconscious, no visible signs of injury or trauma. Pulse, steady; blood pressure, slightly elevated; breathing, normal...Cops found him. No shoes, for some crazy reason."_

"_Take him to number 3...I'll make sure Doctor Miller takes a look at him. Any ID?"_

"_Yeah, I think so. Here's his wallet. Hmm...Got what looks like a ticket stub or somethin'...Huh! This ain't like nothing I ever seen, though. There's all these weird-lookin' card made out of plastic, or somethin'...What the heck is a 'VISA' ?"_

"_I don't know."_

"_Okay...Here's something with his picture on it. Name says Anthony D. DiNozzo. Get this: his birthdate is 1971! This has gotta be a joke..."_

"_What? 1971? Definitely a joke. It's 1969. He wouldn't even be born yet. Who does this guy think he's trying to fool with this?"_

Tony DiNozzo was struggling to make sense of what was going on. He was hearing voices. One male, the other female. He was on his back on a very uncomfortable surface, and was feeling a vague sensation of motion. Before he even dared open his yes, his sense of smell began to inform him he was in some kind of antiseptic environment.

"Mr. DiNozzo?"

Tony turned his head toward the sound of the masculine-sounding voice, and grimaced slightly. He cracked his eyes open and blinked against the harsh overhead lights. As his sight adjusted, Tony realised he was in some kind of hospital. Peering over him with concerned and somewhat confused expressions were a man and a woman. The man was dressed like an orderly from the 60s, and the woman like a nurse from the same era.

The nurse smiled when she saw him blinking back at them. "Glad to see you're awake, Mr., uh, DiNozzo," she said. "I'm Julia. Can you tell me where you are?"

"A hospital, by the looks of it," Tony answered.

"Good. I'm going to ask you a couple more questions, okay?"

"Sure," Tony said, thinking that she was pretty darned cute, and somewhat familiar. He flashed her his best smile, doing his best to pour on the charm.. "Ask me anything."

Julia took his flirting in stride. "What's the day today?"

"Friday," Tony said.

"Okay...Can you tell me who the President of the United States is?"

"For now, it's George W. Bush," Tony replied without hesitation.

Her eyebrows shot up in surprise, and she looked sideways at Tony, then looked at her colleague. The orderly mouthed the word 'Psych', and made a quiet, but hasty departure.

"Not a fan of 'Dubya'?" Tony asked.

"'Dubya'?" Julia said in a puzzled, questioning tone.

"Yeah," Tony said. "You know, as in 'George 'double-you' Bush?" He traced a 'W' in the air with his finger.

Julia pursed her lips.

"What, did I say something wrong?"

"Oh, no," Julia replied mildly. "Nothing's wrong. I'm just waiting for Dr. Miller to come check you out."

"Oh, okay," Tony said, thinking to himself that she was obviously hedging. He kept getting the sinking feeling what something was very, very wrong. For one thing, he noted the complete lack of computerized hospital equipment. He'd been inside hospitals many times to know that none of them were as outmoded as this one seemed. And furthermore, how'd he even _get_ here? The last thing he remembered doing was...what, exactly? As he lay on the gurney, Tony tried to avoid the growing sense of unease in the pit of his stomach.

"Excuse me, Julia," Tony said tentatively, "this is going to sound really looney-bin, but...you see, heh, I think I uh, hit my head, or something, and I'm having a little lapse in my memory..."

Julia looked at him expectantly. "What is it?"

"What year is it?"

"That's what _I'm_ supposed to ask," Julia said.

"C'mon, humour me, please," Tony begged.

The pretty, brunette nurse answered with a sigh: "It's 1969."

Tony smiled to hide his alarm. "1969! Ri-i-ight! Thanks. Of _course _it's 1969." He tried to sound relieved, but his mind was reeling. _I don't think we're in Kansas anymore, Toto,_ he thought to himself. _Either that, or this is one really tripped-out dream..._

ooo

_Maybe it's time I lay off the bourbon_, Leroy Jethro Gibbs thought to himself. He was standing on the top step of a flight of stairs, door leading out ajar. He looked alternately between the basement and the upper level. Gibbs wiped his bleary eyes and blinked a few times to make sure he wasn't just 'seeing things'. Down below, he could see the boat he was building (all hand-tools!). He knew there were people who thought he was crazy to build a boat in his own basement with no means of getting it out, but he didn't mind. Everything looked perfectly in order in the basement – _his_ basement. But up top, on the ground level of the house, things were _not_ perfectly in order. They looked, in fact, decidedly foreign to Gibbs.

Taking a tentative step across the threshold, Gibbs walked into a hall that was not his; made a quick tour around the premises. He saw a kitchen and living room that was not his; a worktable with what appeared to be a ham radio that most definitely was not his. The décor looked quite dated, as if the owners of the house hadn't redone anything or remodelled in 35 years, but it didn't look _old_ or decrepit. There was even a record player queued up with an Elvis Presley record in the living room.

_Where the hell am I? Is this a dream?_ Gibbs asked himself. Things sure looked, felt, _smelled _real enough...

Motion caught his attention. Small. Black-and-white. A pink tongue was soon licking his ankle. Gibbs looked down and saw a Dalmatian puppy happily frisking about, clearly unperturbed by his presence. Briefly forgetting his confusion over where he was, Gibbs smiled indulgently and scratched the little dog behind the ears. The dog yapped and begged for more.

"All right, you little mutt," Gibbs said, and rubbed its belly. "Where's your master, bud?" He checked for dogtags, and saw it read 'Elvis'. _Who names their dog 'Elvis'?_ Gibbs thought, but remembered the Elvis Presley record he saw earlier. _Whoever lives here must be a serious fan of 'The King'._

Hardly believing what he was doing, Gibbs systematically and cautiously combed the upstairs rooms much in the same way he would as a Federal Agent while combing unfamiliar territory. He was searching for any signs of human life.

"Anybody here?" he called out. It occurred to him that if the owners of the home were there, they would probably think it extremely odd that a stranger suddenly popped into their residence.

Gibbs finished his tour of the upper level, which included a full bath, master bedroom, and a smaller room that looked like it belonged to a young boy. And that boy was a New York _Mets_ fan. All the rooms were devoid of human occupancy, even though the hour suggested by several clocks in the house would indicate it was bed-time for any decent human being; especially a school-aged child.

He could think of only a couple other times in his life when he felt this lost and disoriented, and almost convinced himself he was experiencing an extremely lucid dream.

Gibbs tried to think very logically about what his next move ought to be.

_Sit down, relax, and wait until I wake up? Sleep off the effects of the bourbon? _

Then, illogically, he thought: _What if this family decides to come home?_

_What if I just go back into the basement? Just go back down to the boat. Then maybe this dream will end, and everything will make sense again..._

He approached the door to the basement, opened it, and was shocked to see that it no longer contained a boat-in-progress.

_Boy_, _I'm really going to have to talk with Ducky about this one in the morning,_ Gibbs thought. _I've never had such a vivid dream in my life... _

ooo

Dr. Donald 'Ducky' Mallard shut the door of an autopsy locker, and rotated his tired shoulders. He discarded his gloves in the bio-hazard bin, finished his routine clean-up and scrub-down, filed some papers for the lab, switched off the lights and made for the exit. As he stepped out, he felt a strange sense of vertigo, and paused to steady himself. His vision swam for a moment, and he shut his eyes. When he opened them, he was staring down a long, dim hall. Turning back to face the door, he saw it was not _his _Autopsy door. It said 'MORGUE' instead, and it was a single door, not stainless steel ones that _shussed_ open with an electric eye that detected motion. He turned around again and stared down the hall. He started to make his way tentatively down towards the end where there was an elevator that only went up, but it surely wasn't the elevator he knew from NCIS.

_Where in blazes am I?_ The Medical Examiner thought to himself. _Oh, dear...they say dementia runs in the family...am I going mad? How old was Mother when she started showing signs of going batty?_

Ducky extended a shaking finger to press the 'up' button to call the elevator to his level. _I'm either losing my mind, or I've nodded off to sleep at work, and this is simply a highly-enhanced nocturnal vision. _

The elevator doors opened, and with renewed confidence, Ducky stepped inside and pressed for the ground level. If this was a dream, he decided he was going to try his best to enjoy it. If he was lucky, he might even be able to direct its course like he'd been able to do on rare occasions.

That notion was quickly dashed, however, when the elevator arrived and doors opened to reveal what he recognized to be a hospital. Ducky was shocked to hear a familiar voice crying out in desperation.

"_Wait!_"

_Is that Tony?!_ Ducky thought incredulously.

A different voice, comforting but firm: "Keep still, Mr. DiNozzo. We're not going to hurt you."

"Did I say Bush was president? I meant Kennedy – I mean Nixon! Nixon's president of the United States! I don't need to be...se-da-ted..."


	3. Chapter 3

Ziva couldn't sleep. No matter what she tried, nothing seemed to work. In frustration, she sat up in bed and threw off the sheets. She knew what she needed. She shrugged out of her sleepwear, donned a pair of black jogging tights, T-shirt and hooded jacket. Then, with near reverence, she pulled the bright orange hat that had belonged to Lt. Roy Sanders over her neatly-braided head of hair. She tied on her running shoes and left her home.

In spite of the late hour, Ziva decided she needed to run until she was bordering on exhaustion. It had worked in the past; it would work again tonight. She beat the jogging path in a steady rhythm, enjoying the physical exertion and the feeling of power in her stride. Whenever she ran like this, she couldn't help but let her thoughts slip to the murdered lieutenant she'd known only briefly, but who'd left an indelible mark on her heart and soul.

Roy...boyishly handsome with a disarming smile and an amazing sense of courage in the face of his impending death...Ziva connected with him on a level she hadn't thought possible with a stranger. She remembered her triumph when she was finally able to place him. She'd been surprised how flattered she felt when he realized he recognized her, too. They'd been like two ships passing in the night, and would probably never have made acquaintances if not for the fatal poisoning that brought Roy to NCIS seeking help, and which took his life much too soon. Wistfully, Ziva thought of when Roy asked her if she would have noticed his absence on the jogging route had they not had this chance to meet. She honestly admitted that she would have, but that in time, he would have faded from her mind.

_But I'll never forget now, _Ziva renewed the vow as she continued along the trail, familiar enough even in the moonless night and infrequent lamp posts lighting the way.

Time slipped away as she ran. She could feel the burn in her calves and thighs; perspiration gathering on her brow underneath the fold of Roy's hat. Her heart and lungs were working in healthy tandem to the beat of her footfalls. When she finally slowed to a stop for a quick rest, she bent over at the waist to give her legs a stretch. As she brought herself up, her head began to swim for a brief moment.

_Ugh! I came up too quickly,_ she thought, and shut her eyes and took some deep breaths to ease the spinning sensation. Slowly, she raised her eyelids, and the scene before her snapped into focus.

Ziva David wasn't prone to flights of fancy or hysterics. But what she found herself gazing at would most likely have caused another person to either think they were hallucinating, or thrown the less-controlled ones into a frenzied fit of screaming.

Far in the distance, but still imposing and ridiculously tall, stood the twin towers of the World Trade Center.

In confusion, Ziva took quick stock of her immediate surroundings. It took less than three seconds for her to realize she was most certainly not on her usual jogging route. There was a river that certainly wasn't any she'd ever encountered in Virginia, so it wasn't the Potomac, or even the Anacostia. The foliage was different. She'd been on the upper latitudes of the North American continent long enough to recognize seasonal changes, and the shrubs and trees around her indicated early Fall. Ziva gazed up at the twin towers once again and took in more of what she knew could only be the rest of the Manhattan skyline.

A thousand thoughts flew through her mind. When her brain had exhausted all the _how, why_ and _where_ questions, Ziva forced herself to think rationally. She told herself that somehow, she had ended up somewhere in the state of New York. This was problematic, of course, for several reasons. One was that there was no earthly way she could have _run_ from Virginia to New York. Reason number two was, well...two towers that weren't supposed to be there anymore!

Ziva thrust her hands on her hips and shook her head at the sight. _I must be dreaming._ _There is no other logical reason that would explain this...this whatever has happened. _But the night air against her cooling skin certainly felt real. Her breaths as her heart returned to a resting rate felt natural as air passed through her nose and lungs. She paced around a few times, wondering what to do next. She'd been trained for many things in Mossad, but no training even came close to preparing her for apparently being out of time and space.

ooo

Dr. Mallard, pushing his disorientation to the back of his mind, rushed forward to his nearly- unconscious colleague. In the five seconds he'd taken to get from elevator to a curtained-off section numbered with a '3', he knew what was happening to them was no ordinary turn of events. Without even questioning it, he instinctively knew he had to calmly accept his current reality. He somehow felt Tony's safety depended on it.

Ducky drew the curtain back and stalked in, confidently announcing his presence. "Excuse me," he said, in his most official and commanding voice to the doctor who had just injected Tony, "but what _are_ you doing?"

"I'm sorry, who are you?" A young doctor who looked as if he were barely out of medical school shot back. He wore a name tag on his white coat that read 'Dr. W. Miller'.

"I am Dr. Donald Mallard," Ducky said, adding a touch of haughty superiority, "and _that _is my nephew."

The nurse at Dr. Miller's side, whose name tag indicated she was 'J. Sullivan' said, "You're this man's uncle?"

"Yes. We're here for a symposium on paranoid schizophrenia, of which I am a leading authority in my native Scotland. Anthony is more than my nephew; he's my case study that I'm presenting this week. We were having troubles with our hotel reservation when I lost sight of him. Now, I need to know _precisely_ what drug you've administered, as it it may have adverse effects on anti-psychotics already in his system."

Ducky surprised himself at his quick thinking and off-the-cuff cover-story. He only hoped it was enough to convince the two people in front of him, even though he thought the notion of being Tony's relative laughable.

Dr. Miller appeared flustered at Ducky's intrusion. He cast a sideways glance at Nurse Sullivan, and heaved a sigh, deferring to the more senior doctor in his presence. "He was showing signs of agitation and confusion, so we administered 10 mg. of Diazepam."

"Ducky...issat you?" Tony mumbled weakly.

"Yes, yes, Tony..." Ducky said, leaning over the younger man. "Uh, uncle Ducky is here. No need to worry."

"'Uncle'?" Tony murmured vaguely, eyes flickering and unfocused.

Ducky patted Tony's hand gently. "Quiet now, Anthony. Rest. Poor boy," Ducky said, shaking his head. "I'm afraid the trip here over-excited him. Under the circumstances, I suppose I really can't blame you and your staff for your reactions to his condition. The Diazepam should be alright. Dear me. He must have slipped out of the hotel lobby and got himself into a spot of trouble...I swear, one simply cannot turn one's back on him. Who brought him in?"

"Paramedics," Nurse Sullivan answered. "He was unconscious when he was found, but otherwise unharmed."

"Thank you, my dear," Ducky turned to the pretty nurse. "I appreciate all you've done for him. If it's not too much trouble, when he's come 'round enough, I'd like him to be released to my care."

"If it's alright with Dr. Miller..." she looked to her colleague.

The young doctor waved his hand dismissively. "Sure, that's fine. Psych will probably be relieved they won't have to take on another case tonight." With that he left them to continue with his duties.

Ducky looked down at Tony, who now appeared to be resting quietly. He gave an appreciative smile to Nurse Sullivan, who was checking Tony's pulse. _No one wears nurse's uniforms like this anymore_, Ducky mused. _What in heaven's name have we stumbled into?_

"Dr. Mallard, is it?" Nurse Sullivan addressed Ducky.

"That's right, uh, Nurse Sullivan." Ducky replied.

"Please, call me Juila," she said kindly.

"All right, 'Julia'," Ducky amended.

"What did he just call you just now? 'Ducky'?" she asked.

"Oh, yes," Ducky said quickly, "it's a nickname I picked up as a youngster. Anthony here, though, uses it more to annoy me than as a term of endearment. Pay him no heed."

"I see...I'd like to ask you a few questions about your nephew," she said, appearing a little uncomfortable about the whole matter.

"Yes?" Ducky said, afraid of what she might ask, and how far he could carry his ruse.

She retrieved what appeared to be a wallet from a bedside tray. "This was found on him. Frankly, what we found inside...well, it's not like anything any of us has ever seen before. There's these cards that look like they're made out of _plastic_. One of them even indicates it's a drivers' license of some sort, with a highly impossible birth-date issued by the state of Virginia-"

"Yes, that's where my sister, that is, Tony's mother raised him," Ducky interjected.

"That wasn't my question," Julia said, lowering her voice. "Have _you_ ever seen a driver's license quite like this? I don't know how they do things down there in Virginia, but in New York, they don't make them like this."

She showed Ducky Tony's license. "Now, I've heard of some states requiring color photos on their licenses, like what Ohio's been doing...but all the licenses I've ever seen are on some kind of paper. And _this_," Julia said, fishing out another card, "this one has his name on it, too. You're his uncle. Do _you_ know what a 'VISA' is?"

Ducky sighed, at once grateful yet disturbed by Julia's unwitting revelation that they were in New York. He felt stymied as to how he could explain the license and credit card.

She looked at him expectantly.

"Well, you see," he started nervously, "it's really rather, uh, complicated...As I mentioned, my expertise is in the area of paranoid schizophrenia...My nephew suffers from a particular form of delusion that is rather unique. As such, his therapy is also unique."

Julia stared at Ducky with a dubious expression. "What _kind _of delusion are we talking about?"

"Tony thinks he's from the future," Ducky said, drawing from his own fears of what was happening to them. "His belief is so real, his mind has conjured an elaborate alternate reality where he's been somehow transported to the past. The items in his wallet are...tangible manifestations of that imagination. As his primary physician, I have allowed him to manufacture them and carry them around. It is all actually a part of his therapy. You see, he must slowly and gently be brought back to reality. To deprive him suddenly of his very rigid belief system might be the catalyst for a psychotic break."

For a moment Ducky wondered if Julia would start to think that _he_ was the crazy one. Instead, much to his relief, he saw empathy reflected in her blue eyes.

"Oh, I'm so sorry, Dr, Mallard," she said, looking down at Tony's resting form. "It must be so difficult for you and the rest of your family. I did a rotation on the Psych ward once, and some of the people there...it's just so sad what happens when you're mentally unstable and out of touch with reality. It must be frightening."

"Yes, well, thankfully Tony is neither a danger to himself nor to society," Ducky said. "He's actually a very highly functioning individual. That is, until he starts to share his notion that he's really not from this era."

He laughed, and Julia chuckled back nervously. Suddenly, something caught her attention from across the room. Her whole face lit up in surprise and delight. "Please excuse me, Dr. Mallard," she said, and left his side.

Ducky watched her approach a ruggedly handsome man in a brown leather jacket who was waving to her. By the way they embraced and kissed, he realised they must be husband and wife. They began to talk quietly to each other, so he returned his attention to Tony.

"My dear fellow, it seems we have quite the dilemma on our hands," he muttered softly. "I do hope you'll forgive me for the liberties I've taken with your level of sanity. It was the only thing I could think of on the spot to make our presence here credible."

Tony was blissfully unaware of Ducky's chatter, but the older man continued.

"What are we going to do when you awaken, I wonder? I'm quite convinced this is not a dream. Maybe when that drug wears off we'll come to some solution together, hmm?" He gave Tony's shoulder a gentle squeeze.

Suddenly Julia came rushing back to the gurney beside Tony.

"Excuse me, doctor. Is that Benazepril?" Before even waiting for an answer, she pushed her way past the young intern that was standing there and disconnected the newly hung IV bottle and snapped the connecting line away. "I just gave this patient 50 mLs of Benadryl on admittance. Mix them and he's dead."

"Well, why wasn't I made aware of it?" the intern stupidly asked.

"It's in his chart," Julia answered testily, fixing him with a steely gaze, flatly ignoring his misplaced indignation.

Ducky was highly amused at the nurse's gumption, and watched her with admiration as the young doctor meekly pulled the now safe patient's chart.

Julia once again turned to look across the room at the man she'd just greeted. He was smiling broadly at her. He must have realised she was busy, so he mouthed the words "_I love you, bud,"_, and waved his goodbye. Julia's face softened, and she mimed the words back, adding a '_more'_ in place of '_bud'._. The man exited the room, heading through the double-doors. Ducky saw that the glass windows on the doors were stenciled with 'LB – 16 Emergency'. Above them, the clock mounted on the wall showed that it was close to midnight.

_Well, at least I know what time it is,_ Ducky though to himself. Small consolation, given the fact that he was still short on answers. Julia smiled at him. "He's going to be okay," she said, tilting her head in Tony's direction. She suddenly blushed and shyly looked away. "What am I saying? You're the doctor! You're the expert on his condition..."

"Oh, not not worry, my dear," Ducky said warmly. "We doctors sometimes overestimate our importance. And it does help from time to time to hear someone else say that everything is going to be all right."

Julia smiled at him. "Thank you, Dr. Mallard. It's not every day you hear a doctor admit he's not infallible like some of the doctors around here," she said. "Will you be okay for now? I gotta get back to the rest of my patients."

"Yes, of course," Ducky said.

"I'll be back to check on your nephew later."

Ducky stared after her as she went about busily speaking with other nurses, consulting with doctors, checking IVs and newly admitted patients. He found a chair and pulled it up beside Tony's gurney to sit down. Tony's breathing was slow and even. Satisfied that he was okay, Ducky tried to relax. Idly, he wondered where Tony's shoes were as he observed the black socks on the young man's feet.

_What are we going to do, Tony? We're in New York, and we're no longer in the 21st century...What are we going to do?_


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N:** Once again, spoilers for the film _Frequency_.

Homicide Detective John Sullivan walked into the 7-4 precinct in Queens, bleary-eyed, unshaved, and seemingly nursing a bad hangover. At least that's how it appeared to his senior partner, an older black man known to one and all as 'Satch'. It had been a strange enough morning for the 7-4 not to have to deal with a cop not on top of his game, and Satch observed John slink away to the washroom.

A sour look crossed Satch's face. It seemed to him like the younger man had had one too many long nights spent with nothing but a bottle of vodka for company. Satch decided John needed a kick in the pants, or an intervention. He walked down the hall towards the washrooms, past a few interrogation rooms where a couple weirdos were being held from when they inexplicably turned up in the crime lab the previous night.

Satch only heard about the strange duo indirectly. It wasn't in his job description to deal with whack-job trespassers who claimed to be in the employ of a federal law enforcement agency, but he idly wondered what was being done about them before he confronted John.

Inside one of those interrogation rooms, a detective named Danny Houlihan paced around, pausing occasionally to look at the two other occupants who were quietly seated at the only table. It was the strangest couple he'd seen in a long while. He'd been tasked with getting to the bottom of their sudden appearance in the crime lab, and he hadn't known what to make of them when he first laid eyes on them several hours ago.

One of the intruders was a young, white male, possibly late 20s to early 30s, baby-faced with short, dirty-blonde hair. He was dressed in business attire, and had a slightly deer-caught-in-the-headlights look.

The other was a white female, possibly in her mid-to late 30s, in Houlihan's estimation. She wore ultra-dark lipstick, had black hair pulled into two pony-tails, sported a few tattoos, a spiked collar around her neck, knee-high boots with 3 inches of heel... and most unusual of all (because it didn't exactly fit in with the woman's obvious 'alternative' fashion sense): a white lab coat.

_A geek and a goth, _Houlihan thought, and shook his head. _If that don't beat all..._

"Let's go over this one more time, from the top," he droned. He was a tall, balding Irish-American about 45 years of age.

Special Agent Timothy McGee stole a glance at forensics expert Abby Sciuto. He saw that her eyes were open and alert, but her shoulders were slumped with exhaustion. They'd been sitting there for hours, trying without success to explain how it was they'd managed to find themselves inside the crime lab of the 7-4 precinct.

"How did you get in there undetected?" Houlihan asked.

McGee let out a long, tired sigh. "We _told_ you; we don't _know._" _And you've obviously never heard of Gibbs' rule about never keeping two 'suspects' in the same room._

"Right. You 'don't know'." Houlihan pretended to consult his notes. "You've both said, repeatedly, that one minute you were, uh, sitting in the NCIS crime lab in the Navy Yard in our country's capital, and the next minute you were here, in Queens, New York."

Neither McGee nor Abby could miss his mocking tone.

"Yes," McGee said, in reply to Houlihan's summary of the known facts.

Houlihan continued to pace, and stretched his arms and rotated his neck and shoulder in an attempt to loosen his muscles. In a quick motion, he came around and slammed both palms onto the table, startling both Tim and Abby.

"That's bull," he said, his angular face growing red with annoyance, blue eyes wide and piercing.

"Look," McGee said tiredly, "we've answered all your questions. We haven't committed a crime. I gave you my badge number. Just contact my superiors in D.C., and clear this whole mess up."

Houlihan smiled. But it was one of the most unpleasant and unsettling smiles Tim had ever seen.

"Contact your superiors, huh?"

"Um, yes," McGee said. "Director Jenny Shepard will be able to verify everything we've told you."

"So I should just run your badge number, and put a call in to NCIS, just like that, huh?"

"Yes," McGee replied, trying to muster as much confidence as possible.

"Well, I don't know what universe you're from, _Special Agent McGee_," Houlihan said, "but in _my_ universe, the NCIS don't have no lady director, and your badge number don't exist when we try to run it for verification. So I gotta ask myself: 'Self,' I sez, 'what's a guy like this doin' impersonating a federal agent inside a police precinct?'"

Abby looked at McGee. The expression on her face telegraphed one thing perfectly: worry.

John Sullivan followed his senior partner out of the washroom and down the hall. Duly chastened by Satch's harsh but well-meaning reproach, he was ready to get to work. He let his indignation over Satch's displeasure gradually fade away. Right now, he was dealing with a whole lot more than just a possible drinking problem. He could never even begin to explain the depth of the complex events that were presently overshadowing him. Satch would surely question his sanity if he started talking about ham radios and conversations with his dead father. Right now, it really was just better if Satch thought he was only suffering from a bad hangover.

They walked into the squad room, a cramped area filled with desks and files and other detectives busily poring over their various assignments.

John's current assignment was from a not-so-current murder. No one really liked to work a cold case, but a recently-excavated body had turned out to be part of a series of unsolved murders dating back to the 60s. The crime-scene photos of skeletal remains were spread on John's desk. From the distinctive _modus operandi,_ they already knew they were dealing with what was dubbed 'the Nightingale' murders, since all the known victims had been nurses.

John knew the killer had never been caught after his tally of three victims. When John voiced to Satch that he remembered this fact, the other man just stared at him as if he'd completely lost his mind.

"What're you _talking_? You know better than anyone," Satch said, his mouth hanging open, clearly confused over John's comment. With a look of disbelief, Satch handed a stack of files to his surprised partner.

John took them and rifled through them quickly with a growing sense of foreboding. It added to the already lingering anxiety over the strange nightmare he'd had last night... John remembered he'd wakened, drenched in sweat, confused by the images in his clouded mind. He'd dreamt he was a child again, hiding under a table or something; hiding because he was crying. He didn't want anyone to see him crying; he was a big boy. But he couldn't help it. He was crying because he was so very sad. Sad, because someone he loved dearly was dead...

When John snapped awake from the dream, he hadn't known what to make of it. The dream had felt so _real,_ almost as if it were a memory being replayed. John had been so shaken by it, he'd tried to call his mother, Julia. The most unsettling thing was that he couldn't reach her, even though he was certain he was dialing her number correctly. The dream had upset him because in it, Julia was the one who had died.

John returned his attention to the files. To his horror, instead of seeing three victims from that long-ago series of murders, John saw that there were now _ten_. And one of them was nurse Julia Sullivan. His mother.

"No..." John moaned, feeling bile rising in his throat that he fought to choke back. Memories he hadn't known existed up to that moment suddenly burst to the fore. He reviewed the sickening crime scene photos. He felt like he was experiencing the tragedy for the first time, yet simultaneously, as if it were an old, familiar ache.

_Mom is dead. Murdered. _John struggled not to let his emotions spin out of control. _How is this possible? This can't be real. This is a nightmare._

But the dogeared files that were brown with age and years of handling were indisputably real.

_Something happened,_ John thought in desperation. _Something changed! Mom never died. Why am I the only one who remembers that Mom never died like this?_ John was still trying to come to terms with this reality when a loud, foreign-sounding voice filtered down the halls into the room.

Several other heads in the room snapped up in response to the commotion outside.

"Miss, just calm down, okay? Calm down!" Another voice floated down the hall.

John recognized the second voice as that of the desk sergeant, Ralph Jarvis.

"I _am_ calm!" The first voice shot back. "I demand to be released now. _I_ was defending myself; not the other way around."

Out of curiosity, some of the detectives in the room got up to see what was going on. In spite of himself, John found himself following suit.

He saw a young woman, handcuffed, dressed in jogging attire and a very loud, orange hat.

"The arresting officer said you broke the guy's nose," sergeant Jarvis said, "and cracked a few of his ribs. You sent him to the hospital."

"He was trying to _mug_ me," the woman argued hotly, "or worse."

John looked at her with interest. She didn't _look_ threatening or dangerous, but evidently whoever she'd sent to the hospital picked the wrong person to mess with. He realised from her manner of speech that she couldn't possibly be American... he pegged her as being possibly Middle Eastern...

"He also found you were carrying a concealed weapon," Jarvis continued, ignoring the woman's complaints, "but you weren't carrying any identification... Do you always go jogging with nothing but a knife on you in the middle of the day?"

"No, I do not," she snapped testily."I usually carry a knife _and _a gun during the day. I want to make a phone call right now!"

"Okay, phone call... What did you say your name was, again? You know, the non-existent one we can't find when we look it up in the DC directory?"

"Ziva David!" the woman seethed, clearly not impressed that she was being patronized.

"Ah, right. Let me guess, 'Ziva David', you want to call your _lawyer_, right?" Sergeant Jarvis said mockingly. "I hope you have a good one, lady, because assault charges are just going to be the tip of the iceberg when it comes to what we're going to throw at you."

John cringed inwardly. He never liked Jarvis. The asshole was such a self-absorbed jerk, John wondered how he'd even lasted this long on the job. Well, at least he wasn't out on the streets...

"The call is going to be long-distance," the woman who claimed her name was 'Ziva' informed Jarvis.

"Oh, really?" he asked, folding his arms. "And who is it you hope to reach 'long-distance'?"

"Director Jenny Shepard of the Naval Criminal Investigative Service," Ziva replied smugly.

Jarivs paused before he said anything in reply. John heard whispers flying back and forth between some of his colleagues.

"What did you just say?" Jarvis asked.

"_Director._ Jenny. Shepard. NCIS." Ziva spit each syllable out clearly.

"Hold on a minute, okay?" Jarvis said, and motioned to the arresting officer to keep an eye on her while he disappeared down the hall to the interrogation rooms.

"Where is he going?" Ziva asked in exasperation, but no one offered a reply.

Some of the detectives who'd come out to witness the hostile exchange started returning to the squad room, evidently convinced the fireworks were over. John Sullivan hung back. He didn't know much about NCIS; just that it was a small, civilian outfit that investigated crimes in the US Navy. That didn't exactly tally with the Middle-Eastern woman they presently had in custody... And really, what kind of modern woman went jogging with a knife? Mace was more the concealed 'weapon' of choice.

Jarvis soon reappeared in the hall with a frustrated-looking detective Houlihan.

"That's what I'm telling you!" Jarvis whispered harshly. "She's asking for a Jenny Shepard, too. NCIS."

"Think it's some kind of prank?" Houlihan asked.

"Maybe. But to what end?" Jarvis replied. "That woman out there broke a guy's nose and cracked his ribs. Little extreme for a prank, don't you think?"

Houilhan grunted his reply, and approached Ziva. "I'm detective Dan Houlihan," he said to her. "The game is up, lady. Look, there ain't no Jenny Shepard of NCIS. I don't know what you're trying to pull here, but this nonsense ends now."

"What do you mean 'game'?" Ziva asked. "And why will no one believe me? Have any of you even _heard_ of NCIS?!"

"By 'game', I mean I'm tired of all the bullshit. I don't like wasting my time on freaks who think it's cute to impersonate federal agents. And this whole 'NCIS' and 'Jenny Shepard' thing? That's getting old, real fast."

Ziva's brow furrowed in confusion. "What are you talking about?"

"What I'm _talking_ about is that you and your friends need to find a new way to entertain yourselves!" Houlihan yelled, inches from Ziva's face.

"And _you_ need to find a new mouthwash," Ziva said with distaste.

Before Houlihan could make any retort to the insult, Ziva said: "Wait. What 'friends' are you talking about?"

"The ones we have in custody right now. See, I don't know what it is you're all planning, but whatever it is, it's not going to happen. One of you is going to break, sooner or later. For everyone's sake, you'd better pray it's sooner. Personally, I think the geek-boy will crack first. And when he does, I'm betting he'll finger you or the other one as the brains behind this operation."

Ziva stared at Houlihan. "You have more people here who are saying they are from NCIS, too?"

Houlihan let out a sound of exasperation. He wondered now if he'd made a tactical error revealing that piece of information. "Yeah, we do. Small world, huh? They show up last night in here, claiming they work for NCIS, and _you_ turn up here this morning claiming to have ties to NCIS, also."

"Who are they?" Ziva asked eagerly.

"Still playing dumb?" Houlihan said, ignoring her query. "I don't believe in coincidences, lady. What are you three up to? I'm warning you, my patience is real thin right now. I just spent half the night talking to two people who behave like they're a couple o' broken records instead of human beings. Just tell me what you're all doing here, and maybe we can do something about the assault and concealed weapons charges we'll be throwing at you."

Ziva snorted. "Listen: All I know is that _last night_, I could not sleep, so I went out for a run. The next thing I know, I am no longer in DC. I spent much of last night trying to find a way to get back to... more familiar territory. When I realised that simply retracing my steps would not accomplish this, I decided to seek out human assistance. That is when the thug tried to attack me. It was an ill-advised move on his part."

"And you expect me to believe you were magically transported to New York from DC?" Houlihan asked. He thought hearing it from geek-boy and goth-girl was enough nonsense for the day, but to have it repeated by this foreigner... he was starting to feel frustration on a level of epic proportions.

"You wanna take her to interrogation?" Jarvis asked eagerly.

Houlihan nodded. "I think we have a lot of talkin' to do," he said.

Ziva, realising that it would be useless to struggle, allowed herself to be led down the hall. On the way, she passed John Sullivan. As soon as she saw him, she did a double-take, and dug in her heels. This caused Houlihan to force himself to stop just as suddenly to avoid running into her.

"What gives?" he sputtered.

"James?" Ziva looked at John questioningly.

John looked surprised she was addressing him. "'John'," he corrected, "John Sullivan."

"I – I _know_ you," Ziva said, feeling a curious sensation akin to deja vu.

"I don't think so, lady," John said, but was intrigued by the sincere expression on her face and the conviction in her voice.

"Move it," Houlihan barked, and shoved Ziva onwards.

She craned her neck over her shoulder for one last glance at John before she disappeared inside one of the interrogation rooms. She noticed that he was looking back at her, an equally puzzled expression clouding his handsome features.

***

When Frank Sullivan arrived home from visiting his wife, Julia, at the hospital, it was well after midnight. He'd picked up his sleeping son, Johnny, from his best friend, Gordy's place, and was about to take him upstairs to his own room when he noticed there was a stranger sitting on his living couch.

The Dalmatian puppy, Elvis, was curled up on this person's lap, dozing comfortably.

So as not to startle either child or dog, Frank said quietly, but menacingly: "Who are you, and what the hell are you doing in my house?"

The stranger didn't flinch. "Question one: Gibbs. Question two: Your dog got out. I asked around about which house on the block he called home. Figured I'd wait around until his owners came back, just in case he got out again."

Frank, still wary, kept his distance from Gibbs, and kept a tight hold of his slumbering son. "Elvis doesn't usually 'get out' of the house," he said.

"Guess there's a first time for everything," Gibbs replied with a shrug.

"Yeah," Frank said dubiously. "Well, we're home now, so you can leave."

"You mind if I use your phone before I go?" Gibbs asked. "I would have done it before now, but it's gonna be long-distance. Didn't want you to have any surprises on your phone bill."

Frank considered for a moment. This Gibbs guy was trying his best not to appear threatening. "Long-distance?" Frank asked. "Who the hell are you wanting to call at this hour? China?"

"No," Gibbs answered with a small smile. "No, I need to call Washington. And the people I want to get in touch with are always awake."

Frank tried to let his suspicions slide. If this interloper had wanted, he could have already walked off with whatever valuables he could have found in the house. Instead, he'd just sat on the couch with the sleeping puppy in his lap. He shifted Johnny around to his other shoulder. The kid was starting to get heavy.

"Yeah...sure. Phone's in the kitchen. Make it quick."

"Thanks," Gibbs said, and carefully scooped up the puppy and placed him on the living room floor. Elvis stirred at the interruption, and suddenly woke. He yowled and stretched, and eagerly waddled after Gibbs as the man strode into the kitchen to find the phone.

Frank stared at his pet's sudden interest in the stranger.

Gibbs ignored the animal as he picked up the receiver. He dialed the rotary phone for information, hoping that what he was about to do would actually work. From a daily newspaper he'd found in the house, the year printed on it indicated he was somehow in October, 1969. He was now 95 percent sure that he wasn't dreaming, since he'd never had a dream remotely like this. And if he wasn't dreaming, then he had to find a way back to his own time and space. Logically, Gibbs knew that 'NCIS' did not exist in 1969, but NIS did...

When the operator came on line, Gibbs requested to be put through to the office of the Secretary of the Navy.

"I beg your pardon sir?"

"Secretary of the Navy. His office. The Pentagon," Gibbs said.

"Sir, I'm not sure I have the ability to call the Pentagon..." the operator said in a small, nervous voice.

Gibbs attempted to suppress his annoyance. With a sigh, he hung up. This was getting him nowhere. Nothing was making any sense.

Frank Sullivan was still standing in the living room, clinging to his child. "Problem?" he asked.

Gibbs rubbed his chin. "Yeah... no... Thanks for your hospitality. I think I'll just be on my way, now."

He left the kitchen, Elvis nipping at his heels. He was almost to the door, and out into God knew what, when the puppy began to bark loudly.

The sleeping child in Frank's arms stirred. "Elvis! Shush!" Frank admonished.

Elvis whimpered, but bounded in front of Gibbs, barring his way to the door. He kept up his yapping, and started a mournful-sounding howling when Gibbs tried to turn the doorknob.

"Why's Elvis crying?" Johnny asked sleepily.

"It's nothing, Johnny," Frank whispered, "go back to sleep."

"I gotta leave, fella," Gibbs bent down to talk to the pup. He scratched behind its ears, and the animal quieted. Hoping it was sufficiently placated, Gibbs once again tried to depart. Elvis would have nothing of it. He yapped sharply, wagging his tail wildly.

"Sorry," Frank said. "He's never acted like this before."

"Daddy, who is that man?" Johnny was awake now, sleepy-eyed, but growing more aware of his surroundings.

"He's just leaving, son, don't worry," Frank said soothingly.

"But, Dad... Elvis wants him to stay."

The sound of a car pulling into the driveway became a new focus of attention. Elvis snuffled, and there was a discernible change in his behaviour.

"Expecting more company?" Gibbs asked Frank.

Elvis gave a series of happy yips at the sound of a couple car doors being slammed shut. The sound of footfalls approaching the door reached his ears, and he suddenly stiffened, as if on high alert.

"It's my wife," Frank revealed.

"Mom's home!" Johnny sighed happily.

The door opened, and nurse Julia Sullivan stepped into her home. Elvis snorted and jumped around her, tail beating crazily. He seemed ridiculously pleased to see her.

"Hi, Jules," Frank intercepted his wife before she could see Gibbs.

"Frank! What are you still doing up? And Johnny, you should be in bed," she said with dismay.

"Uh, Jules," Frank said haltingly, "we sort of have a visitor... but he's just on his way out."

She looked up in surprise. "Oh?"

"Jethro Gibbs," Gibbs stepped forward to shake her hand.

"_Gibbs?_"

For a moment, Gibbs wasn't sure if he was hearing properly. Instead of one voice repeating his name, he heard two. He looked past Julia, out the door to see two faces that were very familiar. He could barely contain his shock.

"Ducky? Tony?!" he exclaimed. "What are you doing here?"

"I uh... I've sort of brought home visitors, too, Frank..." Julia tried to hide a sheepish smile.

The five adults could only stare at each other, wondering just how much more strange things could get.


	5. Chapter 5

"Jules, how long are they gonna stay here?" Frank Sullivan asked his wife as they got ready for bed.

"Don't take that tone with me, Frank," Julia retorted. "They've got nobody they know in town, and their hotel screwed up their reservation. I did what I thought was right. The hospital couldn't keep them there forever."

"And neither can we," Frank said. "Jules, you said that the one guy – 'Tony'? You said he was a head case. You want a head case in the same house as Johnny?"

Julia pursed her lips. "Tony's harmless. A little confused about reality, maybe, but he's harmless. His uncle's a doctor, remember? He's taking care of him."

Frank let out a frustrated sigh. After what he'd experienced the previous 48 hours, he was actually starting to question his own interpretation of reality. But he certainly couldn't tell his wife that he'd recently had a conversation with his grown son – Johnny – from the future, over the ham radio. She'd have him committed if he tried to explain that John had warned him about a fire that would claim him – _had_ claimed him – but that he'd heeded the warning and was now alive, instead.

"All right," Frank said. "They can stay until they clear up this hotel business."

He was rewarded with a bright smile and a kiss.

Downstairs in the living room, a still-groggy Tony was resting on the couch, trying his best to keep up with Gibbs and Ducky. As he lay there, he found that his eyes were inexplicably starting to feel itchy, and his sinuses began to feel as if they were plugged.

The three were comparing notes, attempting to find some common thread that had drawn them all together to this time and place.

"Hmm... yes, well, I was starting to worry that I was showing signs of going dotty like my mother and my uncle. Dementia quite possibly has a genetic component, you see. But then I heard Tony yelling out, and that reassured me that I wasn't quite losing my mind – yet."

Gibbs nodded.

"How did you manage to find yourself here, Jethro?" Ducky asked.

"One minute I was climbing the stairs in my basement, the next I was stepping up into this house." He gave a short laugh. "Crossed my mind that maybe I'd had a little too much bourbon."

"So, you just sat around and waited for the family to come home?"

Gibbs shrugged. "It's a nice house. Nice dog, too." Elvis was once again dozing on his lap.

Tony sneezed loudly.

"Bless you," Ducky said.

"Thanks," Tony said with a sniff. "Something's irritating my eyes."

"Allergies?" Gibbs asked.

Tony closed his eyes and shook his head. "Not to dogs."

"It could be anything in the house, Tony," Ducky said, trying to be helpful.

Tony sneezed again, loudly.

"Could you stop doing that?" Gibbs snapped. "You're gonna wake the family."

"Sorry, Boss," Tony whispered, "but I ca-_ahhhh-chooo_!"

Elvis jerked awake and gave a curt bark.

"I can't," Tony finished his sentence with a yawn.

Gibbs stood with the puppy, who was starting to fall asleep again. "I think we should continue our talk in the basement. 'Sneezy' here is less likely to disturb our hosts."

Ducky and Tony followed Gibbs downstairs, placing a sleepy Elvis on the couch. The animal seemed too tired to notice the new object of his affection was leaving the room.

***

After an hour of futility, detective Danny Houlihan left an uncooperative Ziva and returned to Tim and Abby. He looked at them expectantly, but they stared right back at him. Abby suddenly raised her hand.

"What is it?" he muttered through gritted teeth.

"I have to use the little girls' room," she said coyly.

"Fine. I'll get someone to escort you," he said stiffly. "What about you, Mr. Federal Agent? You need to 'go', too?"

Tim nodded.

Houlihan hollered for a female officer to take Abby to use the facilities, while he took McGee.

"So, um, what was all that yelling and screaming about earlier?" Tim asked as they headed down the hall.

"You heard that, huh?" Houlihan said with a smirk. "Aren't you tired of this? You're just making it harder on yourself. Come clean now, and maybe you'll get off light."

"Get off light from what? You haven't formally charged us with anything! You've just held us for questioning. You haven't even read us our rights. I don't know how you do things in _your_ universe, detective, but in _mine_, I do things by the book."

Detective Houlihan stood glowering as Tim entered the stall. The younger man wasn't sure how much further he ought to try to push the detective. When he and Abby had heard what they recognized to be Ziva's angry voice, they knew they had to find some way to break her out. After that... they weren't sure what they'd do after that. Tim had a number of theories involving quantum physics and string theory to explain what was happening to them. He'd discussed them at length with Abby, until she'd put her head down on the desk and begged him to stop.

"Finished yet?" Houlihan snapped. "Come on, move it!"

Tim flushed the toilet, and Houilhan led him towards the sinks.

Left alone in the interrogation room, Ziva tried to relax. Losing her temper was not going to help matters, even if that detective Houlihan was a moron. Okay, maybe she had used excessive force when she'd beat up on the guy who'd tried to mug her, and maybe she'd been a little belligerent... but why was it that no one was taking her seriously when it came to Director Shepard? Everyone seemed to think she was fabricating some elaborate tale with the help of two other people they had in custody. She didn't know if they were just toying with her with that one. And then, to top it all off, she could have sworn that cop, 'John Sullivan', looked just like that James Caviezel...

Nothing was making any sense to her. Ziva wondered if she ought to demand to be released to the custody of the Israeli consulate. From there, she'd be able to connect with her father, assistant Mossad director. If these stupid cops wouldn't believe her about Jenny, would they take the word of a foreign agency? She decided she'd make that request as a last resort, but realised that something else was still bothering her: the fact that she'd seen the World Trade Center twin towers standing tall.

_If I ask them_ 'What year is it?', _they will think I am mad,_ Ziva thought.

***

Once they'd settled in the basement of the Sullivan abode, Gibbs, Ducky and Tony once again tried to take stock of their predicament.

Tony wasn't of much help because he was still woozy.

"What's his problem?" Gibbs asked.

"Diazepam," Ducky answered.

"What?"

"Valium, Jethro," Ducky replied. "They gave it to him in hospital because they thought he was getting a little too worked up. The best we can do is to let him sleep off the effects."

"At least he's not sneezing anymore," Gibbs observed, while Tony drifted off, head lolling on his chest as he slumped on an old couch.

"Mm-hmm. Maybe the poor fellow does have an allergy to pet dander."

"Let's take it from the top, Duck," Gibbs said. "I wanna know everything about how you ended up in that hospital."

Ducky related to Gibbs how he'd first been about to leave the NCIS autopsy bay, but was then somehow in the hospital morgue.

"You were in the _morgue_; I was in my basement..." Gibbs mused.

"Do you think there's a connection?" Ducky asked.

"Right now, I still don't know what to think," Gibbs answered. "How'd Tony come into the picture?"

"I don't know," Ducky replied. "He was apparently brought in by paramedics. Curiously, he didn't have his shoes on, but he did have his I.D. Jethro, I've had to weave quite the elaborate tale to cover up the fact that we are not exactly from around here. I.D. Cards and credit cards simply didn't exist in this form in the late 60s. I've told them Tony suffers from a rare psychological disorder, and that I'm his uncle. I've also told them I'm an expert in the field of such disorders, and that we're here for a symposium."

Gibbs looked at his colleague with extreme skepticism."And they bought all that?"

"I don't know. They seemed to. I suppose the white coat I'm wearing might have had something to do with it. People tend to trust doctors implicitly, you know. Do you know what I find fascinating?" Ducky asked, without pausing for an answer. "It's that we've all ended up here together. Nurse Sullivan was looking after Tony, and you somehow popped into the Sullivan residence. Shouldn't that mean something?"

Gibbs sighed. "Maybe... I'm hoping that when DiNozzo's head clears, he'll be able to make himself useful. 'Cause right now, I'm not seeing any way to explain what the hell's been going on, or how we're getting back to where we came from."

***

When morning came, the three men were no closer to a resolution. Gibbs and Ducky had talked to the wee hours of the morning and had finally managed to grab a few hours' worth of sleep, however fitful. Tony had slept like a log.

He opened his eyes, and was at once startled by his surroundings. "Aw, noooo. I was hoping this was all a bad dream," he groaned. "You mean I didn't imagine waking up in hospital and being drugged by crazy doctors?"

"Calm down, Tony," Ducky said soothingly. "What do you remember about last night? What were you doing before you woke up on that gurney?"

Tony reflected. Gibbs waited patiently for his answer.

"I was watching a _movie_," he said brightly.

Gibbs rolled his eyes. "Of course you were."

"No, seriously, Boss... I was watching my free movie rental. You know, the one I got from that nasty box of cereal you forced down our throats."

"Then what?" Gibbs prompted.

"Then? Then I uh, I had to, you know...go..."

"'Go'?" Gibbs repeated.

"Yeah, go," Tony said, "as in normal, human biological function."

"So the Fiber Flakes did work," Ducky smiled his amusement.

Tony ignored the M.E. "After that, I noticed the movie had started playing. Since I missed the beginning, I picked up the remote to flip back to the start. The next thing I know, I'm waking up in that hospital."

Tony grimaced at the memory, then cracked a smile. "Smokin' hot nurse, though... Funny... she seemed kinda familiar, too."

"Uh, yes, Tony," Ducky said uncomfortably. "Nurse Sullivan. You were probably too tired to realise, but she's actually our hostess. When she heard of our plight, she offered to let us stay for the night."

"She did?"

Ducky nodded. "And we need to explain a few things. One: Gibbs and I have determined that we are _not_ in DC."

"Where are we?" Tony asked, suddenly growing wary.

"It would appear we are in Queens, New York; circa 1969."

Tony cracked a grin and started to laugh. "Right... Is this some sort of agency test? I mean, one of those tests that are supposed to test how prone to suggestion you are?"

"Tony!" Gibbs snapped. "Focus! This is _not_ a joke, or a test. This is serious."

"Sorry, Boss," Tony said. "I'm focusing. What else do you want to know?"

Gibbs frowned, then hit upon something: "Yeah. I wanna know what movie you were watching..."

"Oh, that's easy: _Frequency._" His eyes suddenly went wide. "...Which was about time travel! Well, not exactly time-travel, because no one actually went back or forward in time like in _Back to the Future_, but information got passed to people in the past using an old ham radio. Something about massive solar flares and the _aurora borealis_... I mean, the premise was totally sci-fi and all 'movie logic', but it's still pretty entertaining. Wait a minute! 'Sullivan'! Gibbs; Ducky... that's the name of the family in the movie! That nurse! She's from the movie!"

Gibbs glared at Tony, ignoring his long-winded discussion of the movie plot and focusing instead on his last few comments. "Tony, are you saying that we're somehow trapped inside of a _movie_?"

Tony checked himself and tempered his excitement. "Yes, Boss. That's what I'm saying. It's the only explanation that makes any sense."

"_None of this makes any sense at all!_" Gibbs snapped. "Ducky, check him out as best you can. Make sure he's not suffering any lingering effects from the Valium."

Ducky's expression grew serious. "I don't think that's the Valium talking, Jethro."

"What, you _believe_ him?" Gibbs shot back.

"Under the circumstances, Jethro, I think it's time we started considering that the impossible may just very well be possible."


End file.
